"No kidding. UNSUBs will inject themselves into the investigation all the time, but to
participate in it?" Morgan said.
"Everyone who spoke with them described them as polite, self-assured, and focused. They
didn't appear to have access to information that the UNSUB would know," Reid said.
"You don't think they're the killers," Morgan said.
"I do not."
Morgan shook his head. "Then who the hell were they?"
"I don't know," Reid told them.
Morgan saw J.J. exit an office near the entrance and come over to join them. "Everyone is on
board with keeping the story out of the press. Even Dr. Curran at the funeral home seemed to
understand the need for discretion."
Callahan came over from another area and said, "I just finished talking with one of the techs.
They're not hopeful about finding any usable fingerprints. Looks like these guys wore gloves
any time they touched anything here."
"And nobody thought that was unusual?" J.J. said with a frown.
"FBI agents wearing gloves when they might be handling evidence?" Rossi said. "No, I
doubt that raised any eyebrows at all."
"In any case, if they are our UNSUBs, that's a pretty bold move," Callahan said.
"No social anxiety from these two, it's true," Rossi said, "but I tend to agree with Reid. These
guys aren't the UNSUB."
J.J. and Callahan looked to him with curious expressions.
Rossi shrugged. "The UNSUB is taking these women and torturing them while he travels. He
must have some kind of RV or trailer in order to work. I didn't see a trailer hitch on that car.
Did you, Morgan?"
Morgan closed his eyes to picture the car. "No."
"Then they're probably not our UNSUB," Rossi said. "Unless they've got a second vehicle
somewhere."
Morgan sighed. "At any rate, they're gone now. Let's focus on what we learned from the
coroner."
"Was there news?" J.J. asked.
Rossi told them about the timing of the rape and torture. And there was quiet for a few
moments while Reid, J.J., and Callahan absorbed this new information.
Finally, Callahan said, "Okay, so he's sadistic, he's misogynistic, he's very confident. So…?"
"Other than the obvious, that the UNSUB enjoys inflicting the maximum amount of pain
possible, it suggests that this offender is more disorganized than not," Reid said. "He doesn't
have the patience to go through each of these elements in sequence, which would allow him
to spend a longer period of time enjoying the victim's pain, and he lacks the skill to keep the
victim alive during a prolonged ordeal. So instead, he just…does everything all at once."
"If the goal is to inflict the maximum amount of pain, but the UNSUB doesn't have the
patience to enjoy that pain…," J.J. said slowly, "I think that could indicate that he is totally
indifferent. He feels like he is above the entire human experience. Pleasure, pain, remorse,
fear… He enjoys the torment, but simultaneously feels disconnected from it."
"That's a pretty deep mental fracture," Rossi said, sounding worried.
And Morgan could appreciate why. "An UNSUB like that is going to start devolving rapidly.
We may be looking at a spree very soon."
"He's abducted three women in less than a week and two of them are dead and in pieces,"
Callahan said. "We're looking at a spree already."
Hotch came over to join them. "Local patrols have reported a number of cars matching the
description you gave us, Morgan. Unfortunately, classic cars seem to be relatively common in
the area."
"I'm telling you, something with a body along the lines of a Camaro, Impala, or
Thunderbird," Morgan said.
"Well maintained, too," Rossi agreed. "I'm almost jealous."
"Then they're definitely not the UNSUB," Reid nodded. "Our UNSUB's disorganization
wouldn't allow for the patience to spend on more than basic upkeep on his vehicle. He'll most
likely be driving a truck or SUV, it will be a common, easy-to-obtain make and model,
probably dirty."
"Whoever our intruders were, they were right about the map. The UNSUB is moving from
east to west, and is probably out of town by now," Hotch said.
"For causing so much mayhem, these guys are awfully helpful," Rossi said.
"I suppose we can thank them when we find them," Hotch said.
Callahan scowled. "And then give them some new bracelets for impersonating federal
agents."
Morgan felt his phone vibrating. He pulled it out of his pocket to see "Baby Girl" on his
caller ID. He couldn't help but smile as he answered it. "Hey, Mama."
"Hello, Lover," Garcia replied. "I've got some good news for you.""Let me put you on speaker," he said. He laid the phone on the desk and tapped the speaker
button. "Okay, go ahead, Sweetheart."
"Another part of the first victim's body has turned up," Garcia told them, "her right foot. And
while this is super icky, it's also super helpful because there was a tattoo on it. It took me a
couple minutes, but I was able to track her name down as a Kelly Struble from Savannah,
Tennessee. Her information has been emailed to your tablets."
"What have you got on our fake team members?" J.J. asked.
Garcia actually laughed at that. "As we suspected, no Lynn Meredith or Joel Warne is
employed in any capacity by any part of the Bureau. However, those are both names of two
of the founding members of Kansas."
"The band?" Hotch asked in surprise.
"The very same, my liege."
J.J. looked puzzled at this, but she didn't say anything.
"We'll send you the sketches as soon as we have them. Keep us posted," Hotch told her.
"Will do, boss." Garcia disconnected the call.
Morgan opened Garcia's new email and downloaded all the attached information. "Kelly
Struble, age 22. Bears…no resemblance whatsoever to Heather Owens."
"We already knew the first victim was black and the next two were white, but even beyond
that, they're very dissimilar," Reid agreed. "Facial structure, body type, and socioeconomic
class are all very different. Struble was a law student with excellent grades, while Owens was
a 35-year-old bartender. And our Jane Doe was in her early forties, meaning she likely
wouldn't fit the same type, either."
"So this UNSUB is targeting women, but doesn't care who they are beyond that," Hotch said.
"He views all women as equally disposable."
"Very egalitarian of him," J.J. said wryly.
"I think it supports your theory, though," Callahan said to her. "This UNSUB views himself
as outside of humanity and better than it. He doesn't care who he kills because he hates
everybody."
"So any woman who encounters this man is in danger," Rossi said. "Even if he doesn't
interact with her, just seeing her on the other side of the street could make her a target."
The team glanced over to where the forensic techs were wheeling the map that the fake FBI
agents had used out of the office. Morgan noted the vast amounts of ground west of where the
last push-pin was. That ground represented millions of women.Sam looked over to where Dean was cutting the Meredith-Warne creds into tiny pieces.
They'd picked the lock on an empty room and holed up in another of their usual motels, a
good forty miles away from Searcy. Dean hadn't even been picky about trying to find one
with magic fingers this time since they'd only be staying an hour or so at the most. While
Dean destroyed all the paperwork from those aliases, Sam checked to see how far the hack
they'd planted in the police station had gotten and double-checked that they'd made a clean
get-away.
"How'd we do?" Dean asked.
"Locals have a BOLO out on the car," Sam said, "but they're not looking more than ten miles
out, and they think it's a coupe instead of a sedan. Our descriptions are accurate as far as they
go, but so vague that they're worthless. We're good for now, but there are sketches on the
way."
"Okay."
Sam shook his head. "That was only the good news."
"What's the bad news?"
"The feds they called in on this? It's a team called the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They're
profilers," Sam told him, skimming over the brief bios and contact information listed for the
FBI team.
Dean looked at him curiously, but didn't say anything.
"They're good. They study criminal behavior, work up a profile of their suspect, and use that
to catch bad guys. Apparently they usually work with the really bad cases. Serial killers,
serial rapists, cults…"
"The kind of bad guys we usually avoid, you mean?" Dean said, shuddering.
"The kind of bad guys they think we are. And their close rate is through the roof. Way above
the average, even for a team. These guys are smart, and really good at their job," Sam said.
"And two of them saw us. They're gonna come after us, too."
There was a long silence. "Maybe we should drop this one," Dean suggested at last. "Tip off
another hunter, and make them some trap cuffs? I don't like the idea of getting locked up."
Sam looked curiously at Dean. "That's usually my line."
His brother was quiet for a long moment. After a while, he just shrugged. "What can I say,
man? I just really like living at the bunker."
"Do you want to call it?" Sam asked.
It was a weird role reversal. He'd protested taking this case at first, but now that they were on
it, he wanted to see it through. Still, Dean had a point. They might be better off to drop it and
send someone else in. Someone the cops didn't have a line on yetDean was quiet for a moment, as he dropped the remains of the creds they'd burned into the
trash can—thankfully metal—and set fire to them. They watched the flames for a moment
before Dean said, "No. Let's finish this."
Sam nodded. "In that case, it looks like the first victim has a name now. Kelly Struble, 22
years old, law student abducted about a week ago from Savannah, Tennessee." He turned the
computer to show Dean her picture.
Dean nodded. "Are we thinking she's actually the first victim, or just the first we know of?"
Sam frowned. He did some quick searching on the news. "I'm gonna go with first," he said
after a moment. "There was a women's book club in Savannah, Tennessee that is reported to
have committed some kind of ritual suicide during one of their meetings a day before Kelly
Struble went missing. And look at the pictures the news released."
Dean came and peered over his shoulder and then groaned. "Always with the witches, damn
it."
They were unmistakably looking at an alter, with candles, a pentagram that Sam guessed was
probably aligned perfectly southwards, and some kind of fluid, that Sam didn't think was
water. It wasn't blood either, because the blood spatter was easily distinguishable on top of
the whole mess. He didn't want to imagine any of the other available options.
"So the coven summons a demon for some reason," Sam said, "only the demon doesn't want
to play along with their plan and kills them, then…starts a murder spree?"
"Eh. It's a demon. They like killing," Dean shrugged.
"Yeah, but most demons don't do that for no reason," Sam argued.
"So, let's catch him and cut the answers out of him," suggested Dean. "I bet these witches had
some kind of meatsuit all set up for their new friend to ride."
Sam did another quick search. "Here we go. Keith Hummer, 27, vanished the same day the
book club died. He's suspected of their deaths because…one of the members was his mother."
"She sacrificed her own son to be a demon's meatsuit?"
"Yeah, she sounds like a real peach." Sam ran a quick search and said, "The last activity on
Keith Hummer's credit cards was the same day the demon jumped him, and it was to max out
his withdrawal limit. He hasn't touched 'em since."
They were quiet for a few moments until Dean finally said, "I've been looking at the info
from the Breitkopf case."
Sam nodded. "Me, too. The demon is copying him pretty hard."
"Yeah, and that doesn't make sense," Dean said. "Demons are way too arrogant to crib from
somebody else."Sam frowned. "But this one obviously is, so…?"
"No, no. Hear me out. What if it's not a copycat?"
It took Sam a moment to figure out what page Dean was on, but when he did… "You mean, a
demon serial killer?" He did not want to admit it, but as a theory, it made a lot of sense.
Dean nodded. "H.H. Holmes was a serial-killing ghost. Why not?"
Sam nodded slowly. It did make sense. "So, we're thinking…?"
"Frank Breitkopf, serial-killing asshole, dies in a showdown with the FBI in 2007," Dean
said, warming to his theory. "Because he's a serial-killing asshole, he gets an express ticket
downstairs, and his eyes start going black."
Sam scooped the pages on Breitkopf out of their stolen case file and paged through them
thoughtfully. "Okay, so then these witches summon up a demon for some reason, but…
they're not exactly the brain trust. They can only get newbie Breitkopf. And even him, they
can't control."
"But he's a serial killer. So he kills them, and then he figures that he's topside. May as well do
something fun with his time." Dean finished with a flourish.
"If that's true…" Sam began paging through the case file as a thought came to him. "The
BAU first encountered Breitkopf in January, oh-seven. They did a profile on him." Sam
dragged that sheet out of the file. "If this demon is the same guy, then the original profile
might actually still help us. I mean, we'd have to account for him being a demon, of course."
"What do we do about Heather Owens?"
Sam brought up a map on the computer. "The demon—Breitkopf—is moving west and
slightly north, avoiding freeways. If he keeps to his timeline, Heather Owens is already dead.
He'll be dumping her tomorrow and looking for a new victim. Our best bets to find him
before then will probably be somewhere on one of these roadways. If he bothers to stop
anywhere, that is." He pointed out several roads leading away from Letona, heading west or
north, or both.
Dean stood back with an unhappy expression. "That's a lot of ground to cover, Sammy. But…
is it possible she's still alive?"
"Maybe? But…he doesn't even know we're here, Dean. He has no reason to change his
schedule yet."
It was pointless. They both knew she was dead. "We'll go over that profile thing in the car,"
Dean finally said.
They were going to try to find her, and they were going to fail, and someone would start
finding pieces of her tomorrow or the next day. But they gathered up their things and went to
the car to try anyway.Morgan exchanged an annoyed glance with Callahan as they walked out behind the bar
where Heather Owens had disappeared. "I'm really starting to hate these two imposters,"
Callahan said.
It had been disappointing to find out the bar owner couldn't really tell them anything helpful.
It had been downright demoralizing to find out that "Agents" Meredith and Warne had beat
them to the interview by several hours and raised absolutely no red flags with anyone.
Morgan was looking forward to bagging them.
The only things behind the bar were a dirt lot that passed for extra parking and a dumpster.
"So, according to the manager, Owens came out here and never came back in," Morgan said.
He glanced around. "It's isolated. Hard to see anything but the dumpster from the main road."
"So why did the UNSUB come back here?" Callahan said. She looked around. "Maybe he
came for the dumpster and just happened to spot Owens here? He has been on the road. He
probably has trash that needs throwing away."
"And Owens is in the wrong place at the wrong time," Morgan agreed. "That suggests he's a
little more organized than we thought, though. Messy with his victim disposal, but more
thoughtful in how he keeps his vehicle, and how he abducts his victims."
"He hasn't left any witnesses at any of these abduction sites," Callahan said, "which would
support that conclusion."
Morgan eyed the dumpster thoughtfully, then pulled on his gloves, hoisted himself up to the
edge, and said, "It doesn't look like they've had a trash pick-up yet."
Callahan's eyes got big and round and Morgan offered her an enormous grin. "Let's see. The
black trash bags are the restaurant's…and…here we go!" He fished out an ordinary plastic
shopping bag with a Walgreen's label stamped across it. It was totally full, and tied closed.
"Let's find out what our UNSUB threw away."
They pulled on gloves and opened the bag.
"Okay, packaging for forceps, a scalpel, medical scissors…" Morgan trailed off as he realized
what he was listing off.
"An old Beethoven CD?" Callahan said, pulling a cracked case from the bag and opening to
reveal a scratched disc.
"And a receipt showing that he bought a new one to replace it."
"Did we release Breitkopf's profile publicly?" Callahan asked.
"Yes," Morgan said. "It isn't one of the more popular profiles, though."
"Whoever our UNSUB is, they've read it," Callahan replied, still holding the CD.Morgan nodded. "Time to get back to the team."
When they arrived back at the sheriff's department to confer with their team, it was to find
that the office they'd been assigned initially had been released to them. The forensics lab had
put a rush on processing the prints they found and every single one recovered had belonged
to someone at the station. Other than starting on their map, the two imposters had left no
usable evidence whatsoever.
But J.J. had seen the sketches and she was practically vibrating with the urge to talk about
them.
Morgan picked up a sketch and scowled. "These look like…"
"The Winchesters," J.J. agreed. "Hotch, this is Dean and Sam Winchester."
Everyone turned to her.
"The Winchesters are dead," Rossi told her. "They were confirmed dead by the sheriff, and
medical examiner, in Ankeny, Iowa. We've all seen their file, and I know Henrickson begged
you to put us on the case after we gave him a profile, but they're dead."
J.J. shook her head. "I knew Victor Henrickson a little bit. A few of our potential cases
overlapped with his investigation now and then. He was…obsessed, is probably the kindest
word, with catching the Winchesters. But he mentioned to me that the Winchesters have
faked their deaths before. Several times. There is a body in St. Louis, Missouri, still buried
under the name 'Dean Winchester.'"
"It's awfully hard to fake being cremated, though," Reid pointed out mildly.
Morgan blinked. Reid and J.J. were usually the best of friends. He'd all but challenged her to
accuse an entire Iowa sheriff's department of corruption.
J.J. glared at him. "It is possible the sheriff's office collaborated with the Winchesters. They
were known to be a close-knit team. But we'll never know for sure because most of the
sheriff's deputies, the sheriff, and the medical examiner—who, it's worth mentioning, was the
sheriff's daughter—died the same day the Winchesters were in custody there. The only one
who survived did so because he was off-duty."
"They killed a whole department?" Morgan demanded in shock.
"Actually, those deaths took place after the Winchesters were declared cremated," J.J.
explained. "By several hours. Killing those officers served no purpose for the Winchesters.
They had already been declared dead, so if they were faking it, they were in the clear."
"Then who killed them?" Rossi asked.
"The case is still active," J.J. answered. "No suspects have ever been named."
There was a long quiet. Morgan and Callahan finally broke it to tell the rest of the team what
they'd found. They watched as their colleagues digested this new information. After whichHotch said, "Reid, call Garcia. Tell her to send us our files on the Winchesters. We need to
give the profile."
~*~*
Sam kept darting his eyes from the paper in his lap to the horizon as they drove. "Okay, the
original profile on Frank Breitkopf had him down as a white male, mid-to-late fifties, left
handed, tall, with a medium build."
"Well, we can throw that out," Dean said. "He's in Keith Hummer, who's 27, right handed,
average height, and kinda skinny. I mean, he's white, but the demon doesn't care about that."
~*~*
Morgan looked out over the assembled officers of the White County Sheriff's Department and
listened as Hotch began giving their profile.
"We believe we're looking for an extremely physically fit male between the ages of 25 and
33. He has targeted both white and black victims, making his race somewhat uncertain, but
we suspect him to be white. He targets women at random, tortures them, dismembers them,
and disposes of their bodies along roadways."
~*~*
"Breitkopf also used ketamine to keep his victims awake but unmoving while he tortured
them," Sam said. "And he would cauterize their injuries while he dismembered them to keep
them from bleeding out and dying."
Dean shrugged. "He doesn't need any of that now. He's a demon. He can use his powers."
"Clean freak, well-maintained vehicle, and kept notes on his torture," Sam read off.
"Probably still does all that," Dean shrugged. Predictably, they still hadn't found anything,
but he showed no signs of wanting to stop, so Sam kept scanning the road, just in case.
~*~*
"Although we initially believed him to be too disorganized to keep a clean space, his actions
during his abduction of Heather Owens suggest that this is not the case. He is driving a van or
RV, or a truck or SUV with a towed camper or mobile home. He uses this space as a mobile
torture chamber. His vehicle will probably be a common make, model, and color; clean, and
well-kept. Likely without any decals," Morgan told the group.
"In fact, the only ways in which he is disorganized is that his selection of victims is nearly
random, and he is careless in his methods of disposal," Callahan added. "This indicates that
he views himself as an outsider to humanity. Anyone who crosses his path is a potential
target."
"Although he has only targeted women to this point," J.J. said, "given his unpredictable
victim selection, it's possible he may begin targeting men as well.""Breitkopf had a camper that he towed and he would torture his victims inside it," Sam said,
scanning his way down the profile.
"Does Hummer own one of those?" Dean asked.
Sam was already hunting through something on the computer, before saying, "There was a
camper that Joseph Hummer, Keith's father, just reported as stolen." He rattled off the
description to Dean.
"At least we know what we're looking for," Dean huffed, eyes still on the horizon.
~*~*
"This man believes himself to be connected in some way to the serial killer Frank Breitkopf,
who killed nearly two hundred people from the 1970s until his death in 2007," Rossi said.
"As a result, we believe the UNSUB will copy at least some of his mannerisms, such as
listening to Beethoven and recording his torture. It's even possible the UNSUB will wear
similar clothes, so look for someone with a corduroy jacket."
"Despite his belief in their connection," Reid said, taking up the tale in his turn, "we want to
emphasize that this UNSUB is not a copycat in the traditional sense. Although he is
borrowing elements of Breitkopf's signature, the UNSUB is more interested in satisfying his
own desires than he is in emulating someone else's manner of killing. The patterns of his kills
will not grow to more closely emulate Breitkopf's. Instead, he'll most likely deviate further as
he progresses."
~*~*
Sam thought about Dean's last statement. "What they were looking for." Out of the car
windows was a heavily wooded winding road. They couldn't see that far in any direction, and
there were more than a few back trails and unmarked dirt roads and there was just no way to
search them all. The sun was headed for the horizon, and their visibility would be even
further reduced after dark. The search was pointless.
"Don't say it," Dean snapped from the driver's seat.
"I wasn't going to," Sam replied tightly, feeling the frustration set in. Owens was dead. The
demon had probably finished carving her into pieces by now. They'd already lost her and they
both knew it.
It pissed him off.
~*~*
A hand rose in the back of the room.
"Yes?" Hotch said."What about those two guys who invaded our station?" a uniformed deputy asked.
"The two men here earlier fit the description of Dean and Sam Winchester, a serial killing
duo with a tendency to seek out unusual events that they believe to be paranormal or
connected to the occult," Rossi replied.
"The Winchesters are officially believed to be dead," Morgan said, "but they have faked their
own deaths before as a method of evading law enforcement. It is possible their deaths in Iowa
were also falsified."
"If it was the Winchesters, these two men are known to be extremely violent and dangerous,
and we must emphasize that you consider them to be armed at all times, and use caution in
any attempt to apprehend them," J.J. said. "However, they do not fit the same profile as the
UNSUB, and we do not, at this time, believe them to be responsible for the dismemberment
deaths."
"That's all we have for you at this time," Hotch said, wrapping up their profile. "Agent Jareau
will take any questions you have. Thank you."
Except for J.J., the BAU went back to their office. Morgan frowned, trying to figure out what
they should do next. Thankfully, he was spared having to come up with an answer when
Hotch's phone rang.
It was Garcia, who Hotch put on speaker.
"I called the Walgreen's that issued the receipt you found in the dumpster behind the bar," she
told them. "The good news is that they do have a surveillance system inside the store, and we
got a pretty clean shot of the UNSUB's face, which I have sent to your tablets."
There was a flurry of activity as the team all dove for their devices to get a look at who they
were chasing.
Morgan always got a weird thrill off of the first look at an UNSUB. It was both exciting to be
one step closer to bringing them in and horrifying to see a face capable of so much evil.
This UNSUB looked almost thirty, white, with dark hair that was mostly covered under a ball
cap. He was obviously fit, but he didn't look even close to as big as they'd been expecting. In
fact, he was a little on the skinny side, and only about 5'10". Physically, he wasn't that much
bigger than Reid.
"Are we sure this is the right guy?" Morgan asked. This suspect just did not look capable of
tearing a human bone apart by hand.
"I checked the time-stamps twice," Garcia said. "Either we're working off the wrong trash, or
this is our UNSUB. And I have some bad news. His face is not in any database, and none of
the angles are right to run it against drivers' licenses, so I can't tell you his name. And the
outside camera only covers the area in front of the door, so we still don't know what he
drives.""Thank you, Garcia," Hotch said, moving to hang up.
"Mon capitaine, I wouldn't call you just for that," Garcia said, sounding sultry and
disappointed. "I went over the profile you sent me and it occurred to me that if the UNSUB is
in a camper or RV, he'd need a place to park it. Now, if he has an off-the-grid set-up, we'll be
out of luck. But if he doesn't, he'll be spending the nights in RV parks or campsites with water
and power connections. I've made a list of everything that fits that bill for one hundred miles
north and west of Letona, but… Sir, it's a long list, and I can't make that many phone calls
fast enough."
"Split the list up and send us what you can't cover," Hotch ordered. "Good work, Garcia." He
hung up and turned to the team. "Callahan, tell J.J. to start circulating the picture with the
profile. As for everyone else, let's make some phone calls."
~*~*
The afternoon and night went exactly like Sam had known it would. They didn't find a thing
and were pissed off and irritable with each other because of it. When Dean nearly drove off
the road at 3:30 AM, Sam finally made him surrender—angrily—to calling it a night. They
got a motel in a place called Higden, and Sam went out on a food run while Dean put up
wards and salt lines in their room.
The nearest WalMart was a good forty minutes away, but Sam deliberately wanted one that
was a good distance away from their room for the stunt he was about to pull. Dean would
probably kill him tomorrow morning, but losing this victim was really under his skin. So he
picked up beers and microwavable breakfast and pie and some snacks for the road.
And a disposable cell.
It was just after four in the morning, and the moon had gone down. It was nearly pitch black,
but for the occasional lights in the parking lot when Sam tossed the groceries in the trunk of
the Impala, and activated the cell phone.
Then, cursing himself for ten kinds of idiot, he called the number he'd seen when he was
looking up the BAU earlier.
The phone rang. Then rang again. It was picked up mid-third-ring and a sleepy, but efficient-
sounding voice said, "Hotchner."
"Your killer's name is Keith Hummer. He's from Savannah, Tennessee," Sam told him.
"Who is this?" the agent demanded.
"Special Agent Joel Warne."
There was a deep silence on the other end of the call. Finally, Hotchner said, "What do you
want?"
"The same thing you want: to stop the murders. Your murderer's name is Keith Hummer. He's
27 years old from Savannah, Tennessee," Sam told him, kicking himself for doing this. Deanwas going to kill him.
"Why are you telling me this?" Hotchner demanded.
"You can find him faster than we can. Listen, when you do, don't go close to him. Just…
don't. He's more dangerous than you realize."
"And how dangerous are you, Sam Winchester?"
Sam sucked in a breath. "Damn."
"I find it hard to believe that you really care about a few murders. You being the kind of man
you are," Hotchner said.
Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm not who you think I am. All I want is for the
killer to go down." It would be so much easier if they could just tell people the truth about
what was out there. How to stay safe.
"Then stop interfering in our investigation. You'll only slow us down."
"Good night, Agent Hotchner. Sorry for waking you up."
Sam ended the call, scrubbed his fingerprints off the cell, and then put it into the basket of
one of the carts in a nearby corral before he slid into the seat of the Impala and drove away. If
Agent Hotchner called the police on him, Sam didn't see any the whole way back.
Dean was snoring quietly when he tiptoed into their motel room, and Sam frowned. He'd give
himself a twenty-minute nap before waking his brother up. He took off his shoes and jeans,
and then slid into the other bed without any further hesitation.
Twenty minutes. Because he wasn't stupid enough to think those FBI agents would listen.
They were going to go after a demon. And he would just have to hope that he and Dean could
get there fast enough to save them.
~*~*
Morgan felt his jaw fall but he was too astonished and too sleepy to care very much. "One of
them called you?"
"Did he make any threats?" "Where was he calling from?" "Did he say anything about why
he was doing this?"
The questions flew in so rapid-fire that Morgan didn't notice who they were from. He was too
busy being shocked, in any case.
They had gathered in Hotch's and Rossi's room, everyone quickly shaking off their sleepiness
when Hotch announced that he had received a phone call from a living Winchester brother.
"He claimed to know who our UNSUB is. Keith Hummer, 27, from Savannah, Tennessee,"
Hotch told them.Morgan started calling Garcia without being consciously aware of doing so until her groggy
voice was angrily cursing him for daring to wake her up.
"I know it's early Baby Girl, but one of the fake FBI agents called Hotch. And he claimed to
be Sam Winchester."
From the sound of things, that slammed her into wakefulness. There was some noise from the
other end and then she said, "Okay, I will be at the office in ten minutes. Give me ten
minutes. I'll call you back."
While they waited for Garcia to call back, the team got dressed and packed their bags before
convening in the parking lot near the bureau SUVs. Whatever happened next, they weren't
staying here.
They were all more than ready when Garcia called them back.
"Okay," she said, sounding a lot less sleepy, and more than slightly annoyed, "the call to
Hotch's cell was made from a burner, paid in cash, which is currently still active in the
parking lot of a WalMart in Herber Springs."
"Send local PD," Hotch's voice ordered, "though it's unlikely they'll find anything. He
probably ditched the phone. The suspect claimed our UNSUB is a man named Keith
Hummer from Savannah, Tennessee."
"He…did?" There was a pause, and Morgan heard keys clicking. "Okay, he…might actually
be right." Garcia sounded shocked. "I'm sending all this info to your tablets, by the way." She
took a breath and said, "Okay. Driver's license of Keith Hummer issued by the Savannah
DMV looks like it could match the photo of our UNSUB taken at the Walgreen's. And before
Kelly Struble—the first victim—went missing, earlier that same day, there was a women's
book club in Savannah that all died, including one Danielle Hummer, mother of Keith
Hummer. The living room was covered in occult symbols that local PD assumed was part of
the book they were reading. Some kind of old book about demons and magic. Son
disappeared the same day, along with a towable camper belonging to the Hummers, making
him the early lead suspect in their deaths." Another few keystrokes and then she sounded
surprised as she said, "Charges were dropped yesterday afternoon when all the autopsies
came back as heart attacks."
"What?" That came from Callahan who was standing beside Morgan as they crowded around
Hotch's phone.
"It's true. All five women died of massive cardiac events, all occurring simultaneously,"
Garcia told them. "The locals are totally stumped, but whatever happened, they're starting to
rule out murder. However, Keith Hummer maxed out his withdrawal limit and skipped town
without calling the police to report his mother's death. He may not have killed them…"
"But he matches our UNSUB's description and he knows something," Hotch's voice agreed.
"Do we know where Hummer is now?"
"We…don't. We do not. No cell phone, no credit card activ—hold on. I have an idea.They waited, listening to Garcia work on something on the other end of the line before she
came back on.
"Kelly Struble's withdrawal limit for the day was maxed out at a 24-hour ATM in Pangburn
five minutes ago, and if we are very, very lucky… I found him! I have the Hummer's missing
camper on a satellite feed. I'm sending the video and coordinates to your tablets," Garcia said.
A video feed showing a birds-eye-view of a blue pick-up with a towed camper appeared on
Morgan's tablet.
"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch said before hanging up and moving towards an SUV.
"Everybody get in. He's moving, and we're already a good twenty minutes behind him."
~*~*
"You did what?"
Sam had been prepared for Dean to be angry. But he was beginning to think he hadn't been
prepared enough. "They're going to find him faster than us," Sam said.
"They're going to go after him!" Dean yelled. "FBI agents are going to go after a demon!
There is no way that ends well!"
"Well then," Sam snapped, "I guess we'd better go rescue them."
Dean glared at Sam before seizing his computer and angrily typing something into it. "Their
phones are all active and moving. They're leaving Searcy, on a road headed…towards the
middle of nowhere. Get your stuff and lets go."
Sam grabbed their bags while Dean set up his computer to run on a hotspot, so they could
track the Fed phones while they drove. They pulled out of the motel in under two minutes.
As they drove, Sam periodically giving Dean directions from the map, he could practically
feel his brother seething at him. Dean managed to hold it in for ten whole minutes before
exploding.
"What the hell were you thinking, man?!?"
"I was thinking she was alive yesterday morning!" Sam shouted back, surprising both of
them with his anger.
Dean blinked, casting him a split-second glance before looking back to the road.
"Heather Owens was alive yesterday, and yes, the demon was probably torturing her, but she
was alive and we lost her! I'm sick of losing people, Dean! The Feds are going to find him
faster than we will, and we can follow them and keep him from hurting anyone else," Sam
said.
"Mmm." Dean took a breath. "And what if we lose them? How will that make anything
better?"Sam didn't have an answer for that one.
Dean sighed. "Fine. I get it. Just…you know you can't pull stunts like this."
"I know!"
"Okay!"
"Turn right!"
Dean made an irritated turn. Sam didn't even know how that was possible and he was
watching it happen.
~*~*
They were coming up on the camper. Once it came in sight, the team—following the lead of
the SUV Hotch was driving—flipped on their lights and had the driver pull over to the side of
the road.
The sun was just creeping over the horizon at this point, as the members of the BAU all got
out of their vehicles, guns loose in their holsters. Something about this situation was setting
Morgan on edge. Perhaps it was that they weren't really near any towns or back-up. Garcia
had notified the Cleburne County Sheriff's that they were pursuing their suspect into the new
county, but with six FBI members and only one driver in the truck, there wasn't really much
call—on paper—to send any more units.
Maybe it was that Garcia had lost the truck on the satellite and they'd hit a severe dead zone.
They weren't even picking anything up on their police scanners. Morgan knew Garcia
would've called the county dispatch as soon as they hit the dead spot, of course. But now
there was no exact fix on their location, and this road was very isolated, and very heavily
wooded. If they ended up needing help, it could take hours to reach them.
Possibly it was just that all the birds and bugs had gone eerily quiet. The only noise Morgan
could hear was the cooling noises from their engines and their soft footsteps over the
pavement. Whatever the cause, Morgan could feel himself tensing for a fight as he
approached the truck.
"Is that…Aaron Hotchner?" called a voice from the driver's window.
Hotch glanced to Rossi. "Keith Hummer?"
"Who? Oh, yes, the meatsuit." There was a long pause and then, without prompting—further
setting off Morgan's alarm bells—Keith Hummer descended from the driver's side of the
pick-up.
He looked exactly like the picture of the UNSUB from the Walgreen's, right down to the ball
cap. And, sure enough, he was wearing a corduroy jacket. This had every one of the team
drawing their weapons. But it was equally clear that their estimation of how big he was had
not been down to bad camera angles. Hummer was just not very big. Either he had a partner
or, somewhere along the way, they had missed something very, very important.Morgan was seriously worried it was the second. Even the solid feel of the SIG in his hand
was not as reassuring as it usually was.
Hummer glanced around at all of them with an oddly distant manner. Like he was vaguely
surprised they'd found him, but not really all that interested in it. "I suppose I should've
expected you. You did catch me the last time."
"Mr. Hummer, we'd like to ask you to come with us. Ask you some questions," Rossi said.
For the first time, Hummer's attention focused on a single subject. He gazed at Rossi with a
curious expression. "I don't remember you. Where is Agent Gideon?"
"Do you know Agent Gideon?" Reid asked.
Now Hummer's eyes lit up. Morgan was put in mind of the expression on a predator's face
when they'd settled on just what they were going to chase down for dinner. "Come now,
Agent Reid. You profiled me. You know how I know."
"I know you think you're connected to Frank Breitkopf," Reid replied slowly. "Why don't you
come with us and explain how?"
Hummer looked at all of them thoughtfully. "I'm not going to go with you," he said slowly.
Morgan felt his heart drop. He wasn't sure where this was going, but he was positive he
wasn't going to like it when they got there.
"On the other hand, I can't just let you leave, either," he said.
Hummer didn't move. He didn't so much as flinch. But somehow, unbelievably, Morgan felt
his gun wrenched from his hands and away. He looked around to see the rest of the team had
also been disarmed—including the spare on Hotch's ankle—and all their weapons were now
lying at Hummer's feet.
Morgan's eyes bugged out.
J.J. started to say "How did you—" She cut off in a strangled gasp. She was rising in the air,
although nothing and no one was touching her. Morgan wanted to move to help her, but he
found that he had been lifted off the ground, too.
Hummer flicked his head, and the next sensation Morgan felt was being slammed into the
side of his camper. Hard. He fell to the ground, trying not to give in to the black spots
dancing in front of his eyes.
Hummer walked over to Hotch and grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head up. "You really
should've left this one alone, Agent Hotchner. Now you're going to die just because I wanted
to cull the herd a little bit."
No matter what he did, Morgan couldn't manage to move more than just to swing his arms,
uselessly. Hummer lifted them all, again without touching them, and loaded them one by onethrough the door of the camper, stripping all their electronics from them as he did so and
smashing them to bits. All somehow accomplished without any physical contact.
When Morgan was through the door, he was slammed all the way across the space and hard
into the opposite wall. Then whatever force had been holding him up disappeared and he fell.
His arm landed on something that felt a little rubbery. He looked down and immediately
wished he hadn't.
On the floor, neatly sealed in a plastic bag and laying right where his arm had landed, was
another arm. This one was detached from body or hand, though. It began at the wrist, and
ended at around the top of the bicep muscle. White skin. And while his precise side knew
they would need a test to be officially certain, there wasn't really any cause for him to
question it. Especially given the AFB tee shirt, stained with blood, that was hanging neatly
from a hook on the wall. The arm belonged to Heather Owens.
They'd found the UNSUB.
~*~*
Sam frowned at the computer. "Their cell phones have gone dark, Dean. I lost the signal."
"How far away are we from the last position?" Dean asked.
"Only a couple minutes," Sam answered.
It was about five minutes later when they found three FBI SUVs parked neatly on the side of
the road, all with the lights on and the motors running. There were footprints all around, and
an odd little semi-circle of handguns that Dean and Sam put into the seat of one of the SUVs,
but no sign of the camper or the demon.
Dean kicked one of the SUV tires. "They could be anywhere by now!"
Sam gazed across the road to a dirt track that headed off into the woods, catching Dean's arm
when he realized what he was looking at. "No, Dean. They couldn't."
Dean followed his gaze. Then he nodded. "Fresh tire tracks. Big vehicle towing something.
It's not nothing. Let's go."
The drive down the road was slow and agonizing, following the tire tracks down the dusty
lane. And then they actually turned left onto a smaller dirt road that Dean and Sam followed,
before they reached a place where the road turned right. The tracks continued, so they hadn't
gotten lost. But after exchanging a glance, Dean killed the engine and they got out. The
Impala didn't run quietly, and they didn't want to announce their arrival.
Sam unlocked the trunk and they loaded up. Devil's trap bullets, iron crowbars, the colt, the
demon knife, spray paint, the devil's trap handcuffs, and as many bottles of holy water as they
could carry. He had a feeling they were close, and he really wanted to find this demon.They walked quietly down the dirt road—really more of a trail now—for about a hundred
yards until the trees opened up to a clearing with an old barn in the center. Why someone had
decided to build a barn way out in the middle of a bunch of woods was something Sam would
wonder about at a later date. For now, he and Dean were focused on getting in without the
demon spotting them. Because this was definitely where it had holed up. There was a blue
truck and a camper parked beside the barn.
They'd found the demon.
~*~*
Morgan was sure now that this was going to be it for them. Whatever Keith Hummer's
motivation was, he was doing things that Morgan absolutely couldn't explain. Tossing the
team around without touching them, tying them up without touching the ropes, and now—
now that he had pulled out a long, wicked-looking hunting knife and was eyeing each of
them speculatively—he'd somehow managed to turn his eyes completely black.
Morgan, at this point, was just hoping that Penelope said something nice at his funeral. He
was never going to see her again.
He'd obviously brought them here to kill them. He needed the space because he planned to
take his time. And he was now just deciding who to start with. Even though it was now
totally, utterly pointless, Morgan couldn't make the profiler side of his brain just shut up.
"It is good to see you again, Aaron. Derek. Spencer. Jennifer."
Morgan glanced to Hotch. He still wasn't sure what to do with the fact that Hummer
addressed them like they'd met before.
"No, you won't recognize me. Sorry about the face. But he was available, and there's nothing
wrong with this meatsuit, as far as he goes," Hummer said.
"Meatsuit," Rossi said.
It was an odd turn of phrase, Morgan had to agree. And Hummer had used it more than once,
which indicated it meant something to him. Calling his body a "suit," though, suggested that
this guy thought he actually was…
"Frank Breitkopf is dead," Hotch said.
"Yes, I did die," Hummer answered. "You were there. You saw it. In some ways, you drove
me to it. Of course, I didn't understand how worthless human life really is, then. Oh, I
grasped it a bit. I had an inkling. But I didn't really understand." He knelt down and held his
knife right up to Hotch's shoulder. "You really are such fragile, pointless creatures. I don't
understand what God was thinking, making you. Let alone saying He loves you. You're so…
meaningless, in the grand scheme."
He pressed the knife into Hotch's shoulder, pulling a groan of pain from the man. Morgan felt
himself start shouting, but even he couldn't tell what words he said.Hummer yanked the knife back out. Hotch took a deep breath, ignoring the blood oozing
from his shoulder, and said, "And what is that grand scheme? What is it that you
understand?"
Morgan struggled against the chains. Hotch was going to try and keep Hummer talking as
long as possible, to try and give them as much time as they could wring out of him. The
longer they stayed alive, the better their chances of rescue.
Granted, however long this took, their chances were still terrible.
Hummer answered them with a smile that Morgan absolutely was not going to admit
reminded him of Breitkopf. Because he was dead. "Where is Agent Gideon?"
"He's dead," Reid said, drawing Hummer's gaze. "He died not long ago."
"Too bad. I would've loved to make him watch this." Hummer moved towards Reid, pulling
the knife back threateningly, but just at that moment, there was the sound of a deep creaking
from the barn door.
Everyone's head turned to see…no one at all.
Hummer frowned. "Now who do you have shadowing you?" He cast a smile at all of them.
"I'll be right back, Aaron. I still have things to show you." Hummer walked confidently out
of the barn and Morgan breathed a bit easier. For about three seconds.
Because then something happened that managed to make everything worse. A man,
impossibly tall, holding a handgun with the same precision Morgan would expect out of any
FBI agent, stepped out of a deep shadow by the door. He was wearing jeans, a brown jacket,
and heavy workboots. And Morgan recognized him right away. How could he not? Aside
from the sketches and the phone call, there was a time when his BOLO had been updated
every week.
He really was unbelievably tall. All the dossiers had always said he was very tall. And while
the multiple layers of clothing obscured it, the broadness of his shoulders indicated that he
was probably still just as solidly built as he had been the last time he was arrested.
Sam Winchester really was back from the dead again.
J.J. had been right. Their deaths in Iowa had been faked. And now, one of them had just
walked into a room full of thoroughly restrained FBI agents. Winchester had to know he
would be recognized at once. And the Winchesters were much more pragmatic than Hummer.
They wouldn't prioritize enjoying a kill over risking a capture. Morgan knew the math on that
equation. He struggled against his bonds in utter futility. They weren't going to budge.
Thank goodness Garcia was still in Quantico. She would be devastated to lose her team, but
at least she was safe. She was safe and alive and far, far away from what was about to happen
to them.
Winchester saw him.Morgan ran down what he knew of the Winchesters from his brief glance over their profiles
yesterday. They were a team of sadistic torture-murderers. Although Dean Winchester was
the dominant partner, Sam was by no means submissive, and their relationship had survived
multiple falling outs, making them uniquely dangerous among serial killing teams.
Ordinarily, ego—or worse—got in the way of a functional partnership, but not so with these
two. Both of them were also intelligent, Sam particularly so, having won a full scholarship to
Stanford. They were focused, understood law enforcement, and ruthlessly practical. They
were one of the most nightmarish killing teams mankind had ever produced.
And one of them was looking at him right now, holding a gun.
Winchester's face fell at seeing him. But, to Morgan's surprise, he didn't raise his gun to them.
Instead, he just looked sad.
Calloused hands seized his bindings from behind and dragged him quickly back out of the
center of the floor. Morgan managed not to yell in surprise and looked around to find himself
inches away Dean Winchester, the older brother.
He was nearly as enormous as his younger brother, although he looked smaller in
comparison. But with Dean Winchester right there, it was hard to ignore how imposing he
was in person. There really just wasn't space to be any more scared than this.
Now the whole team was struggling, however pointless it was. Hummer apparently believed
he was some kind of resurrected Breitkopf, and the Winchesters were standing here, totally
healthy and alive. Morgan was having trouble imagining a worse combo of back-from-the-
dead scenarios.
But, like Sam, Dean didn't seem like he wanted to threaten them, either. Instead he just
looked to his brother, who was now using a compass to orient a symbol he was spray painting
on the floor.
"What's the over/under on them not knowing who we are?" Dean asked quietly, dragging the
rest of his team over next to Morgan.
Sam gave a derisive huff and kept painting.
"And now they know we're alive. Still glad you told them who the bad guy was?" Dean
challenged.
To Morgan's surprise, Sam's only response was to turn to Dean and glare at him. It was an
extremely irritated glare, but given the fact that the two were serial killers, it was an
amazingly restrained response. And then he went right back to painting.
"You'll only make things worse for yourself by killing us," Rossi told them.
"Then it's a good thing we don't want to," Dean told him, patting Hotch—who he'd just
finished moving—on the shoulder.
Hotch winced.Then, to Morgan's absolute shock, Dean paused. "Did Breitkopf get you?" He ran his fingers
over Hotch's shoulder and noted the injury. Then, while the entire team watched in
amazement, he pulled the hole in Hotch's shirt open and checked out the wound.
"That's not bad. Probably hurts like a bitch, but it won't kill you. It's barely even bleeding.
You're okay." Then, conversationally, he went on. "I'm sorry about dragging you guys into
this. It was Sammy's idea. He's really got his teeth into this case, but he shouldn't have told
you anything. You did find the guy faster than we could've, but now you're in the middle of
all this crap."
Hotch stared at him in shock.
"Not what you expected, am I?" Dean said with a smile.
There was a deep pause. "No," was all Hotch said.
"How do you know about Breitkopf?" Reid asked.
"We looked him up," Sam replied, still busily painting a design that was now taking shape as
a complex pentacle, with odd glyphs in between the points of the star. "I mean, demonic
serial killer is actually pretty weird. Even for us. But it fits."
"Breitkopf is dead," Rossi snapped, sounding supremely irritated.
"Well, sure," Dean shrugged. "You can't turn demon unless you die first. Apparently that's a
rule."
There was a deep pause as they absorbed that statement. "Of course not," Rossi finally said.
Dean actually laughed a bit at that. "If I were you, I wouldn't believe me, either. No hard
feelings."
"Good to know," Callahan said cautiously.
"Of course, I'm about to piss you off again," he told them. "See, I only moved you folks so
Sammy could paint the devil's trap over there. But we need someone to bait Breitkopf into it
with, and he already has a yen to kill you. So, you're gonna be our bait. Sam and I will be
right here, and we won't let him hurt you, but I get it if that doesn't make you feel better."
"It's awfully quiet in there!" came Hummer's voice from outside.
Dean Winchester dragged Hotch over to sit behind the edge of the painted symbol while Sam
raced over and quickly pulled the rest of them against the wall, farther away from the middle
of the barn.
Dean joined them a moment later and the two brothers crouched down to watch.
"You're not going to kill us, but you are going to let Hummer do it?" Callahan said, glaring at
the nearest Winchester, who happened to be Sam.Then, to Morgan's absolute shock, Dean paused. "Did Breitkopf get you?" He ran his fingers
over Hotch's shoulder and noted the injury. Then, while the entire team watched in
amazement, he pulled the hole in Hotch's shirt open and checked out the wound.
"That's not bad. Probably hurts like a bitch, but it won't kill you. It's barely even bleeding.
You're okay." Then, conversationally, he went on. "I'm sorry about dragging you guys into
this. It was Sammy's idea. He's really got his teeth into this case, but he shouldn't have told
you anything. You did find the guy faster than we could've, but now you're in the middle of
all this crap."
Hotch stared at him in shock.
"Not what you expected, am I?" Dean said with a smile.
There was a deep pause. "No," was all Hotch said.
"How do you know about Breitkopf?" Reid asked.
"We looked him up," Sam replied, still busily painting a design that was now taking shape as
a complex pentacle, with odd glyphs in between the points of the star. "I mean, demonic
serial killer is actually pretty weird. Even for us. But it fits."
"Breitkopf is dead," Rossi snapped, sounding supremely irritated.
"Well, sure," Dean shrugged. "You can't turn demon unless you die first. Apparently that's a
rule."
There was a deep pause as they absorbed that statement. "Of course not," Rossi finally said.
Dean actually laughed a bit at that. "If I were you, I wouldn't believe me, either. No hard
feelings."
"Good to know," Callahan said cautiously.
"Of course, I'm about to piss you off again," he told them. "See, I only moved you folks so
Sammy could paint the devil's trap over there. But we need someone to bait Breitkopf into it
with, and he already has a yen to kill you. So, you're gonna be our bait. Sam and I will be
right here, and we won't let him hurt you, but I get it if that doesn't make you feel better."
"It's awfully quiet in there!" came Hummer's voice from outside.
Dean Winchester dragged Hotch over to sit behind the edge of the painted symbol while Sam
raced over and quickly pulled the rest of them against the wall, farther away from the middle
of the barn.
Dean joined them a moment later and the two brothers crouched down to watch.
"You're not going to kill us, but you are going to let HummerCallahan said, glaring at
the nearest Winchester"Shut up," the two chorused in angry whispers.
Hummer stepped inside, and saw Hotch. And only Hotch.
"No!"
He raced forward, over the symbol that Sam had painted, then he reached the other end and
seemed to hit an invisible wall.
Hard.
So hard, in fact, that he actually stumbled backwards.
"Quick-dry spray paint," Dean said out loud, drawing Hummer's gaze as he stood and walked
towards the man. "One of the best inventions on God's green earth."
"Winchesters," Hummer said, sounding very like he personally hated them.
"What? Do they actually teach about us in baby demon school?" Dean said.
Sam, who had also stood, didn't even glance backwards. He did, however, draw a short knife
from his jacket. The blade was covered in strange markings. He advanced on Hummer with
murder in his eyes, ignoring the shouts from Morgan and the team.
"Sammy, wait!" Dean suddenly called.
"He's a demon. We kill those," Sam snapped, looking at his brother.
"Look at the meatsuit," Dean ordered, moving over towards his brother and gesturing
towards Hummer.
Morgan exchanged a very confused glance with J.J. Absolutely nothing about their
conversation was making sense. He couldn't even figure out where to begin to unravel it.
Sam looked him over, then blinked. "Hey! He looks like he might actually be…still alive."
Then, in a turn of events that probably ranked as the most bizarre (if arguably the least
terrifying) in their incredibly strange morning, he got an oddly superior smile and then started
to speak. In Latin.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…"
Morgan leaned over to Reid. "What's he saying?"
Reid glanced at him, surprise all over his face. "It sounds like an exorcism."
Hummer was beating on an invisible barrier now, looking desperate to get to the Winchesters.
And Morgan could see that he wasn't just miming. His hands were genuinely hitting
something, because he could see the impact, his skin turning red. But there was nothing there.
He looked like he was in pain"Let us loose and we'll arrest him!" Morgan shouted.
Sam Winchester ignored him, still chanting in Latin. "Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio
diabolica…"
Dean, on the other hand, came and crouched down beside him. "Sammy won't touch the guy.
If we can save this kid, we're gonna."
"You're going to save a serial killer?" Rossi scoffed. "What is this? Honor among bad guys?"
Dean actually looked fairly tolerant of this comment. His only reply was, "We're not who you
think we are."
"Exorcisms have been known to cause severe injury, or even death, even when practiced by
trained church officials," Reid broke in, speaking quickly. "What you're doing is highly
dangerous."
"It is?" Dean said. "Sam's just saying Latin at him. Are you really convinced we're gonna
hurt him with words?"
Morgan didn't have an answer for that. Sam continued steadily speaking ("Vade, satana,
inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis homanæ salutis…"), but it was clear he was
making no physical contact with Hummer. In fact, there were several feet between them, but
the man was writhing and snarling as if he were in severe physical pain.
"Whatever you're doing to him, it's…it's…" J.J. broke off in shock. "What is that?"
Morgan looked to Hummer and he stopped trying to get out of the chains for a moment.
Because this was even more of a shock than an invisible barrier made of paint.
Hummer looked like he was about to throw up. But rather than vomit or bile, thick black
smoke was dripping (dripping smoke?) from his mouth, but then sliding back in with each
breath.
"I'll kill the meatsuit!" Hummer shouted.
Sam ignored him. "Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine…"
"Fine!"
Hummer reached into his jacket. Morgan felt his blood run cold. Dean was suddenly on his
feet, racing for Hummer's position.
"Don't do it!"
Sam started speaking faster. "Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias…"
Hummer had a gun in his hand. "I'll kill them!"
"Libertate servire…"Hummer aimed the gun. At Morgan. Or…no…to his right.
"Te rogamus…"
The gun went off. Reid jerked backwards, blood spilling out of a wound in his chest.
"Audi nos!" Sam shouted.
The black smoke that had been dripping out of Hummer's mouth now came flowing out of
him in a spiraling, ugly mass. The smell of rotten eggs assaulted him so strongly that Morgan
barely saved himself from retching. He felt the floor under his feet rumble as the smoke
passed down, through it, and away from all of them. Hummer's body collapsed to the ground.
The sight and smell and general unbelievableness of it all had been so shocking that Morgan
had actually looked away from Reid for a moment. He felt incredibly guilty over this until he
looked back and saw that Reid was staring at Hummer too, wide eyes and shock layered
under pain. The two Winchesters were bent over him.
"Was that…? Was that a real—?"
"Real demon? Yeah," Dean said. He had pulled off his jacket and was now stripping out of
the plaid shirt he'd been wearing under it. Sam had both hands pressed hard against Reid's
chest.
"And you really just exorcised it," Reid breathed.
"He's gone for now," Sam said. "Let's focus on you."
"Reid?" J.J. said, sounding both angry and uncertain at once.
"That his name? Reid?" Dean asked, hands expertly checking over the injury, probably to
make sure it wasn't worse than it looked. Reid looked like he was about to pass out, and
Morgan felt his stomach clench until Sam pressed sharply against his chest and he cried out
in pain.
Despite their bindings, the entire team was slowly inching closer to Reid. Morgan knew he
was trying to get as near as he could. Reid had to be okay. There just wasn't another option.
"Listen, kid, you may be skinny," Dean said to him, "but if the Feds gave you a badge, then
you ain't weak. You have exactly one job right now. Stay awake. You can sleep when we get
you some help, but for now, you have to stay awake, okay?"
"Stay awake," Reid said with a weak nod. His face was pale, but determined.
J.J. was trying to get as close as possible. "Untie us! Let us help him!"
"He doesn't have the time for that," Dean said. He looked to his brother. "Sam, we need to get
him to the hospital now."
"Did I do that?" asked a quiet voice.Morgan looked back to see Keith Hummer—now demon free?—staring at Reid in shock. The
two Winchesters exchanged a glance and then Sam picked Reid up, and ran, carrying him for
the door of the barn. Dean walked over to Hummer and said, "The demon riding you did that.
But you can help us now. Is there a cell phone in your truck?"
Hummer nodded.
"Okay. Put it inside the barn. You can stay if you want, but the cops will arrest you for what
the demon did, so I'd be as far away as I could, if I were you," Dean told him. The two
headed for the door of the barn, still speaking quickly.
A few moments later, Keith came back and left a cell phone next to Hotch. "Apparently, the
demon was the thing causing the cell blackout. It should work now. I'm going to call in a tip
to trace my cell phone in a little while. They'll come for you."
And then he left. A few moments later, Morgan heard his truck start up and drive off.
And then, there was nothing to do but wait.
~*~*
To Sam's shock, the nearest hospital was only about twenty minutes away, according to the
GPS. The way Dean was driving, they were going to get there a lot faster.
Meanwhile, he was in the back, trying to keep Spencer Reid—according to the creds in his
pocket—from passing out.
"Demons are real?" asked a quiet voice.
"A lot of things are real," Sam answered.
"Angels?" Reid broke into a slight cough on the word.
"Yes." Sam looked at their passenger oddly. Most people didn't immediately go for that
question.
"A man once tortured me, only he said he was the angel Raphael. Was he?"
"When did this happen?" Sam asked.
"February, 2007."
"Then…it's possible, but probably not. Raphael was assigned to guard…never mind. He just
probably was doing something else. Or maybe even still in Heaven at that point. And if you
saw a man doing it to you, Raphael would've needed a vessel, and those can be hard to find,"
Sam told him.
"Vessel?"
"Being possessed by an angel," Sam explained."That can happen?" Reid was managing to get the words out, but Sam was not liking the way
his breathing sounded. Like he was having to work for air.
"Only if you agree to it," Sam replied, just trying to give the poor man something else to
focus on. "It doesn't matter how you agree, you can be tricked or forced. But you have to
actually say yes."
"Oh." There was a pause. "How many people have we arrested who were possessed?"
"Probably none," Sam answered. "We go looking for this sort of crap, but it's not actually that
common. If you're going to go over your old cases, look for reports of sulfur. Demons smell
like Hell."
"How uncommon is it?" Reid asked.
"There aren't any statistics," Sam replied.
"Then it could be more common than you think. If you've never measured the frequency of
demonic possessions, it could be happening all the time." His voice was getting slurred.
Sam's hands were drenched in blood.
"Dean," he said, looking to the front seat. "Drive faster."
They pulled into the parking lot of Baptist Health Medical Center a few minutes later, but
Reid had already passed out. Dean drove them to the doors of the ER.
Sam hauled Reid out of the seat and carried him into the Emergency Room. "This man has
been shot," he announced to the nearest nurse.
This had precisely the effect Sam expected. About two orderlies and three more nurses
seemed to materialize out of thin air with a gurney to lay Reid on, all of them asking
questions that Sam answered as best he could.
"He was shot about twenty minutes ago, once, to the upper torso. He's been having trouble
breathing; I think the bullet caught his lung. He only lost consciousness a minute or two ago.
I don't know if he's allergic to anything."
The nurses took all this information in and were about to say something to one of the security
guards when Sam heard Dean's voice behind him.
"My wife is in labor! Help! Please help!"
His voice was clashing with a woman's voice, though. "What are you doing? Who are you?
I'm not even pregnant!"
Then there was a crash and a lot of shouting. Sam looked back to see a filing cabinet on the
floor, about six people throwing punches, and Dean ducking at least two guys, looking for all
the world like he wasn't the one who'd started things.
Never underestimate Dean Winchester's penchant for causing mayhem.The resultant chaos of the nurses and hospital security trying to sort out just what was going
on at the entryway gave both of them enough time to race out the door and into the Impala.
Although they didn't discuss it, Sam was sure that he and Dean were satisfied that their
physical presence was no longer needed for this case. Dean pointed the Impala towards
Lebanon. They'd sleep somewhere in Missouri, but they were done sticking around. They
were gone before the hospital staff even thought to start checking security videos.
They never did manage to get that replacement shotgun.
~*~*
It was about an hour before the BAU got out of the barn. It was only a few seconds after that
for them to find out where Reid was. Apparently the Winchesters had actually taken him to
the nearest hospital, where they had practically shoved him into an OR and then run away in
the confusion. Or, at least, that was what the Cleburne County deputies said as they untied the
remainder of the team.
The SUVs were where they had left them, untouched. And, bizarrely, all of their guns were
sitting in a neat pile in the driver's seat of J.J.'s. Which, considering all that had happened—
and it wasn't even 8:30—kind of made a demented sort of sense. They'd nearly been
murdered by the demonic version of a dead serial killer. Sure. Why wouldn't their guns just
be hanging out in J.J.'s front seat?
Shrugging it off, and gratefully accepting back their weapons, they hurried to the hospital
where Morgan grabbed the first phone he could get his hands on and called Garcia to tell her
what was going on.
That conversation took several minutes, and Morgan couldn't wait to get back home and get
his arms around her. He could tell by her voice that she'd been convinced they were all dead.
He didn't bother telling her how close she'd come to being right. She knew.
By that time, Reid had been moved to a hospital room, and he was stabilized. According to
his chart, it had been a textbook surgery. One of his lungs had needed blood drained and a
reinflation, and if he hadn't been rushed to the ER, they'd be putting his picture on the wall at
Quantico. As it was, he was not only projected to make a full recovery, but would probably
only need minimal rehab.
It was a few days before they were all—Reid included—on the jet, flying back to Virginia.
Hotch and Rossi were still arguing about just how to write up the reports on this one.
"UNSUB turned out to be black smoke, and possibly a demonic version of Frank Breitkopf"
was likely not the right way to go with it.
Morgan, meanwhile, kept watching the same video over and over and over. One suspect,
younger in the recording than he had been a few days ago, but dressed much the same way
began his video confession with an unusually frivolous introduction. "My name is Dean
Winchester. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women.
And I did not kill anyone."The cop in Morgan wanted to slap the smirk off of Winchester's face. The friend remembered
the way he'd called Reid "skinny but not weak" and wanted to shake his hand. And the
profiler… That side of Morgan was entirely convinced that despite how outrageous the
claims that followed the introduction, everything Winchester said was absolutely true. He'd
seen that black smoke. He had Winchester on tape now, claiming to have investigated a
"vengeful spirit," and there was no more escaping the conclusion he'd spent half his life
ducking. There really were higher powers. And lower ones, too, apparently.
Hotch's phone rang, but Morgan ignored his voice until he said, "Just a moment, let me put
you on speaker."
Morgan leaned forward as Hotch laid his phone on a table in the middle of the cabin. "Hello,
Mr. Winchester."
"Agent Hotchner," Sam Winchester's voice said, sounding amused.
"How's the skinny kid?" This was the older version of the voice on that confession. Dean
Winchester. Apparently they were on speaker as well.
"I'm all right, thanks," Reid said. "Very sore."
"Hey, Skinny! Glad you're okay," Dean said.
"I'd like to ask you more about demons, if I may—"
"Breitkopf can still come back." Sam's voice cut right through Reid excitedly winding up for
a long geek-out session.
"What?" Morgan demanded.
"Exorcising a demon is only temporary," Sam said. "Now, it's a long temporary, sure. It
might be decades, or even centuries, before he can come back. But he can come back." He
paused and then added. "And if he's summoned directly, like he was this time…"
"Hell, if that happened, he could come back tomorrow," Dean finished when Sam trailed off.
"Why tell us?" Rossi asked.
"Because you can get rid of him for good," Dean told them. "Listen, all a demon is is a
corrupted human soul. So you can banish the younger ones like a ghost."
"How do you banish a ghost?" asked Callahan.
"Find their remains, salt them, then burn them. And you have to burn them completely. Any
remains at all, and they can come back," Sam told them. "It's okay to use an accelerant on the
bones, but the salt and the fire are the critical parts."
"Why only younger demons?" Reid asked."At some point, most human bodies completely decompose. Bones turned to dust and all that.
Past that point, you can't kill a demon by burning their remains. Or, if the person was burned
before they became a demon. That's another loophole. But if there are remains to burn, you
can do it," Dean said.
"Breitkopf only died in '07. He still has remains," Sam agreed. "Unless you guys cremated
him."
There was a long silence. Finally, Hotch said, "Why are you telling us?"
"We figure he's gonna be buried in some prison graveyard somewhere, right?" Dean asked
them.
"He is," Rossi agreed.
"Well, the thing is," Dean said, "I like you. I like all of you, actually. But you're the sort of
people who would arrest us, even if you do believe in demons now. If we try to burn
Breitkopf, you throw us in jail. I don't like you that much."
"Is that why you killed Victor Henrickson?" Hotch said.
There was a deep silence. Finally, Sam said, "We didn't kill Henrickson. We tried to save him
—we tried to save all of them—but we failed. If you want to blame us for failing, go ahead.
But we didn't kill him."
"Then who did?"
"Another demon. Her name was Lilith. She was one of the old ones we mentioned. But she's
also dead now. She won't be coming after any more of your colleagues."
"Your spree in 2011?" Callahan demanded.
"Also not us. That was…let's call them lookalikes for now," Sam replied. "Also taken care
of."
"And the murder in Missouri?" Morgan asked.
"Let's just assume that everything you think we did, we didn't actually do," an irritated Dean
snapped at them.
"Not even the fraud and petty theft?" Reid said.
"We're taking the Fifth on that one," Sam told them with a laugh. "Salt the bones. Burn them
to ashes. Do that and Breitkopf will never come back."
"What will happen to him after that?" asked J.J. curiously.
"If he were a ghost, he'd go on to Heaven or Hell. Wherever he was headed anyway," Dean
told them. "But a demon is someone who died and went to Hell. We're not 100% sure, but I
think when you kill a demon, that's the end of the line.""So isn't that murder?" J.J. said.
"If you think that you are somehow responsible for the eternal fate of the human soul," Sam
answered her, "then I guess you could look at it that way. Honestly, I think that once someone
is a demon, what happens to them after you kill the demon is out of your hands."
"So, have a safe flight back, and make sure Breitkopf doesn't bother us again. Honestly,
cutting people up? That's just…" Dean made a theatrical "bleh" noise that Morgan couldn't
help but crack a smile at.
"Thank you," said Reid, "for saving my life, by the way."
"Don't mention it," Sam said.
"Seriously," Dean added, "don't. You'd be in more trouble than we would."
There was a beep from Hotch's phone. The Winchesters had hung up.
For a long moment, no one could say anything. It was Rossi who finally broke the silence.
"I'm starting to think we need to rework our profile on these guys."
"That certainly wasn't the conversation I'd expect from sadistic torture-murderers," J.J.
agreed.
Callhan nodded. "No, it felt more like we were talking to…" She trailed off, not willing to
voice it.
"Allies," said Reid. "I think that's probably how the Winchesters view themselves. We all
saw the demon leave Keith Hummer's body. Sam told me that he and his brother 'go looking'
for these kinds of phenomena. I think they probably see themselves as protective figures,
looking out for others."
"When we return to Quantico, I want all of you to write your reports up and turn them in to
me. Rossi and I will figure out a way to edit them so we are not lying, but the Bureau can
accept them. We'll make the necessary alterations," Hotch told them. "And we are going to
go back over the case on the Winchesters. All of it. If they are killers, we may finally be able
to arrest them."
"What if they're not?" Morgan asked.
Hotch was silent at that. Ordinarily the answer would be drop the charges, or arrest them and
let them be proved innocent in court. But this? There was no way to prove any of this. They
couldn't prove what they'd seen. They had no way to demonstrate seeing that demon. How
did they prove innocent people were innocent without any evidence to support it?
Morgan didn't like the implications of that question.
It was late, very late, the next night when J.J., Hotch, Morgan, and Reid all walked quietly
into an unremarkable prison graveyard. Hotch had specified that only people who had been
on the team when they'd confronted Breitkopf should come, for credibility's sake. Which onlystrengthened Morgan's conviction not to ask about how they'd managed to get permission to
do this. He suspected some off-the-books favors had been exchanged (and that must've been
one hell of a conversation), but he honestly thought he was better off not knowing for sure.
J.J., Morgan, and Hotch all carried shovels. Reid, who was still wearing a heavy bandage
over his chest, was there to carry the groceries and navigate.
Breitkopf's grave was relatively easy to find. Rather than headstones, the prisoners were
given what amounted to roadsigns. The same green-painted posts you would find holding a
speed limit sign along any highway dotted the ground at regular intervals. Each one had a
metal sign affixed to it about a foot off the ground, bearing name, date of birth, and date of
death. There were no personal touches. Breitkopf was clearly marked.
They dug down to his casket, an unfinished wooden box with no markings. The wood was
starting to rot, and there were holes in it where boring insects had gotten through, but that just
made it easier to open and get inside.
Breitkopf's bones were still there. Morgan felt odd looking down at them, knowing that they'd
once been the frame over which a man had lived.
"Now I see why the Winchesters wanted us to do this," J.J. said, turning her face away.
Reid handed them each some Morton's they'd bought at a nearby Publix, and gave Hotch and
Morgan bottles of kerosene. A few moments and a match later and Breitkopf's last earthly
remains were engulfed in a strong blaze.
With nothing else to do but make sure that all of him burned, they sat down on the grass to
wait.
"So, this is it, right? It's over now?" J.J. said slowly, eyes on the fire.
"For Breitkopf," Reid said.
Morgan turned to him. "What do you mean, kid?"
Reid shrugged, looking even smaller than he usually did, and staring blankly into the flames.
"We saw Hummer possessed by a demon, but the Winchesters were pretty casual about
saying 'demons.' In the plural. They told me it was possible for humans to be possessed by
angels, and they seemed to think the idea of ghosts was totally unremarkable. Not to mention
whatever the 'lookalikes' were that they blame for the murders in 2011 are—it's a good bet
those things were some kind of…paranormal phenomenon as well."
"So…just how much of this stuff is out there?" J.J. said.
Morgan and Hotch exchanged an uneasy look, but nobody could bear to voice a theory on
that. The possibilities were too wide open and too terrifying to contemplate. Instead, Morgan
just stared into the flames and tried very hard not to think about how much bigger the world
was than he had believed just a week ago.
~*~*